


...And Justice For All.

by orphan_account



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: (So expect those filler characters to become a little less filler?), A bunch of "filler" characters who I enjoy to much, A mockery of the 2016 U.S. election, Gen, Now onto the 'real' other tags-, Other political figures I'm too lazy to add, Other tags I'll add when I get further into this mess., Super out of character politicians I refuse to learn how to write, Time Travel (tm), general violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6305725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gilded lettering gleams, new and unblemished, against the dark paint of the Cadillac One. Bulletproofed tires cease their spinning. The rear doors line up perfectly with the wine runner that leads to the threshold of the Capitol, and, at last, the newest President steps into the light.<br/>-<br/>Or, in other words, the world's going to hell- and he knows he's the only one able to save it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Part Where It All Goes To Hell

Capitol Hill is wreathed in patriotic garland, colored papers that flutter in the January breeze. Red carpeting lines the steps, guarded closely by men in black and armed guards. Weary eyes scan the restless crowd for threats. American citizens chatter among themselves, words often anxious and concerned. There are shouts of glee, and pride and fear alike reverberate through the air. The guards' gazes eventually find a peculiar car that glides across the pavement before the building.

Holstered guns are gripped by sweaty palms as the limousine finally slows to a stop.

Gilded lettering gleams, new and unblemished, against the dark paint of the Cadillac One. Bulletproofed tires cease their spinning. The rear doors line up perfectly with the wine runner that leads to the threshold of the Capitol, and, at last, the newest President steps into the light.

Polished shoes tap down first, followed quickly by a golden coif of thinning hair. His skin glows in the light- some would call it unnatural, the strange orange that coated his face. Others would call it 'spray on tanning'. 

Neither of them would be wrong in those assumptions.

A hushed silence falls upon the crowd as the man straightens. Blue eyes scan across them, harsh and judgemental as they were all those weeks ago in the first Grand Old Party debates. Standing at a full height of six foot two, rather impressive for a man of his age, the man takes a moment to assess his surroundings before striding up the steps of Capitol Hill.

-

Deep in the heart of the crowd, a man in a much different position shifts his weight from one foot to another. His phone clasped to his ear, he murmurs, "I still can't believe this." A  _ Donald Trump ™   _ hat sits atop his head, blocking out the glare of the sun, and marking him as just another supporter in the mass of people. 

The phone crackles, and the voice on the other end of the line growls back, "You can't trust him. That man's a liar, a cheat. He doesn't have answers, and now he's the President of the United States."

-

One palm over his heart, the other placed faithfully on a fraying copy of the Bible, Donald Trump stares out into the blue. A pedestal, stamped with the seal of the President, sits off to his side. On it rests a yet to be read speech inked in careful handwriting, marked with a multitude of red pen corrections.

Chief Justice John G. Roberts, cloaked in black robes, whispers to the President in waiting. His remark goes unnoticed and unrecorded by the sweeping news helicopters and the microphone fitted snugly under Trump's collar.

"I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States." 

The words ring out in surprising clarity, rolling over the crowd in a foreboding wave. Uneasy murmurings fill the air- punctuated only by the sharp cheers of those closest to President Donald Trump. American flags are waved, and screams of congratulations and his signature ' _ Make America great again! _ ' piece the air. 

-

None of the avid supporters are aware of the impostor in their midst. 

The man tugs the visor of his cap a bit lower, eyes narrow against the onslaught of glee. "This is… insane." His gaze passes over the mob of men and women, their ecstatic cheers. "It's almost as bad as those last few rallies out here."

"No worse than when your father got elected, let me tell you," the other voice counters, snarky and patrician as ever. " _ Ugh _ . His phrases are wearing off on me."

"We've still got a chance, though, don't we?"

"Jeb, ol' buddy ol' pal, I've got no idea. So long as Carson's carrying through on his promises, we've got a semblance of a chance," the man pauses to sigh. "And so long as Cruz doesn't go rogue. All those Internet theories are really starting to wear off on him."

"Ouch."

"Mhm- hey, listen, Kasich wants you back as fast as possible. I'd call you a cab, but, well, I don't do favors for men with small hands."

"What?"

The exasperation is audible. "You know what they say about men with small hands, Jeb."

"I- what? No, I don't actua-" Jeb stammers.

"You can't trust 'em."

There's a sharp  _ click _ from the other end of the line, and the connection shuts off. He stares at the phone in his palm before pocketing it with a shake of his head. Around him, the crowd is hooked onto the finishing words of Trump's speech. 

Jeb sticks around just long enough to catch the final few sentences, and slips away from the inauguration as the first few strains of  _ Hail, Columbia _ begin to play.

-

" _ Let me tell you something- you've done it. You, the American people, have come to your senses and decided on what's best for your country! You've voted me into office. Me. The man capable of fixing your economy, of building the wall we need to stop illegal immigration- and, yes, Mexico is going to pay for it- and of giving the unemployed jobs again. I will fix this country, repair the destruction caused by my predecessors. _

_ " I, President Donald Trump, swear to you- I  _ will  _ make America great again!"  _


	2. The Part Where The Plan Begins To Form

The air is cold and heavy with the threat of rain. Stars hang high above, twinkling in the inky sky. Their light is filtered through a good six feet of armored glass. It shines down upon the room, casting thin shadows along the walls.

Below, there is nothing more than a sea of choppy waves, grey and clouded with New York pollution. A ferry hurries by- there are children donning Lady Liberty hats and waving flags, tourists snapping pictures of the famous statue.

It's a peaceful scene, really.

Quite shocking, too.

Especially when, nearly three hundred miles away, a very _particular_ someone is getting a "executive tour" of the White House, and America teeters on the brink of insanity.

-

The man stands tall, shadow menacing upon the wall of orange glass behind them. Greying hair, slicked back from his face, is the only indication as to who he is.

"Mitt." A pause. "Romney."

His head turns, dark eyes glare at the speaker. "Christie. I didn't expect you to show your face here again, after what you _did_." The words are spat, venomous.

"It was the only valid option, and after Tru-"

" _I don't want to hear another word about that man!_ " Mitt roars. His composure snaps, and he whirls to face the other man, face flush. " _You know what you did, and you will_ never _take it back!_ "

Christie turns away, briefly, and manages to rally his words together, "We've got a Democratic informant, and her friend. They aren't willing to talk, but they will."

"Informant," Romney repeats.

"Registered voter, through and through. Also relatively proficient in the sciences."

"We've already got Carson- why drag in some ratty civilian to do our work for us?"

"Carson needed help. His base is neuroscience, not, uh" Christie pauses, and, through the reflection on the glass, Mitt watches him glance at his hand. "Theoretical physics and quantum mechanics."

Mitt fixes his gaze onto the dark waves of the Upper Bay, and breathes.

Christie shifts his weight from one foot to another. His face is pulled into a tight frown, wrinkles crisscrossing his forehead in the form of thick creases. The quiet stretches into a thick, uncomfortable silence.

"Get them."

"What?" Christie's head snaps up.

"Get them both, and bring them out here before I change my mind."

For a moment, Christie contemplates offering Mitt a response. _Good choice_ , perhaps. Or maybe a nice _of course_ \- with a little _sir_ tagged on there to get the point across.

Then he remembers that, with his history, and his New Jersey-born sarcasm, all of his choices would come across wrong.

So, with that thought lodged in the corner of his mind, Chris Christie turns on his heel and walks out of the room. Romney watches his reflection fading quickly from the glass.

-

Jeb crams himself into the back seat of the taxi, phone hanging haphazardly from his loose grip. He doesn't bother buckling his seatbelt, and instead chooses to rummage through his pockets for the spare "buffer" money- those last few dollars the Party decided to offer him.

They called it an aid to his little mission, but Jeb liked to think of it as a reward for his brief campaign for presidential candidate.

"Where to?" The cabbie asks, already pulling away from the curb. Jeb manages to slam the door closed just as they hit the main street.

"I, uh."

"Well?" There's a clear snap to the man's voice. Dark eyes find Jeb's in the rear view mirror. "Anything?"

"Capitol South Station," he manages. "Please."

The only response is a grunt.

Jeb takes that as an affirmative, and settles in for the ride.

-

The guards drag the blonde in first. She flails in their iron grips, kicking and screaming obscenities, and quoting something about "basic rights granted by the Constitution". Romney offers her a scoff, a pitying look. As _if_.

It takes some time for her to quiet down, to turn her cold stare to him- but she does, and that's what matters. He spreads his arms in the most welcoming manner he can give her, "Hello, Miss, ah…."

Her lip twitches, "Märchen. Catherine." The guards are statue still, hands braced against her shoulders, making sure she doesn't make a move.

"I'd like to welcome you to the home of th-"

"Where am I?" The words are ice, and Romney frowns at her. "Tell me where I am- and none of that 'home of the Grand Old Party' rubbish, because, that isn't good enough for me."

He contemplates it for a moment, then decides on giving her a solid answer. "Miss Märchen, you are currently in the torch sector of the Statue of Liberty, and we need your help."

"My help."

"Yes, you se-"

"My _help_."

"Miss Märchen, if you'd plea-" Romney's patience is wearing thin- the guards know it. The woman knows it. Hell, even Romney _himself_ knows it.

"You kidnap me."

" _Miss Märche-_ "

"And lug me into a room. And _dare_ tell me you want my help," her eyes are alight with a smoldering anger, and Romney sucks in a breath, preparing himself for an argument. " _Fine_ ! You know what, I won't even argue- but, but, _but_. I want compensation. I know what you need me for. I know why"

He blinks. "Excuse me?"

"It's a small amount," Märchen grins, teeth glinting under the fluorescent lights. "One million dollars, Ruxpin gets to work with me, and _then_ I'll help you with your little machine."

"Ruxpin?"

"My friend. The one you dragged in here with me."

_Oh_ , Romney thinks. That short kid, with the wire-rimmed glasses and the messy hair. Yes, he remembered him. "Hm. And, if we grant these requests, you'll help us?"

"I will, but with an obscene amount of regret."

He almost offers the woman a hand, before noting that the guards still have her hands cuffed behind her back. "I'm glad to have you on the team, Miss Märchen. Welcome to the Grand Old Party. Operation Trump Trump is _glad_ to have you onboard."

Märchen allows herself a tired sigh, before meeting his eyes. "That is the stupidest name I think I've ever heard, and I've heard a _lot_ of stupid names."

-

Deep in the bowels of the Earth, buried under miles of treachery and dirt, there is a table swamped in shadow. It is perfectly round, polished and glinting under the dim lights of the makeshift base, adorned by a single piece of equally circular fabric.

The unseeing eyes of a cloth eagle stare out at the men and women surrounding the table. Thirteen arrows sit in one clenched talon, an olive branch in the other. Not a word is said between those gathered at the table- instead, they sit in silence, heads bowed.

Until one woman moves, her voice barely a whisper. "What do we do? He's won. It's over- everything we've hoped to accomplish is done for. Everything we promised _them_ is done for."

"No."

The word sends her eyes snapping to the other end of the table.

"We do not let them win. America is in a state of revolution, and that revolution cannot be stopped. The people know what they need, what they were promised. They will not stand for this, they will take him _down_. In that, we must believe."

"But… what about the," she pauses, nearly chokes on the word. "The… _Republicans?_ "

Another voice picks up her statement for her, "They will be coming, we all know. To either finish us off, or beg for our help. Most likely, I think, the latter- none of us want… _him_ in the office."

"Exactly!" The woman's face is pale under the dull lighting. "So what do we do? Do we help them if- no, when- they come? I think we want the same things by now. Just, _him_. Gone. Out. Done with."

The man lifts his head, brown eyes brimming with unsaid promises to the American people. "Let them come, and we shall decide- but, in the end? Our decision lies in the hands of the citizens."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's play a game of "Can You Spot The Filler Character?"
> 
> Because, let's face it, she's really obvious.


	3. The Part Where Stuff Starts To Actually Happen

_ Jeb lands on his feet, stopping in coordination with the last bagpipe note. He expects to be showered with applause but he is met with a tense silence as the spotlight turns more into an oven. Tears brim his eyes and his nose begins to run.  _

_ Careful not to break form, he whispers, "Please clap." _

_ His gaze flits over the (rather small) audience, and even his brother manages to avoid eye contact. "Please."  _

_ The word is overwhelmingly loud in the silence.  _

_ With watering eyes, Jeb turns from the crowd, ashamed. His steps off the stage are heavy, despite the lightness of the ballet skirt, of the ballet shoes. Somewhere, muffled by his pounding heartbeat, and the layers of the curtains, a speaker crackles to life. _

_ "Next up, we have…," the voice is punctuated by distant pops. Jeb does his best not to press himself into the nearest corner.  _ "...Grand Central Station!"

He awakens in a single, jerky movement that sends his head crashing against the window. The sudden noise earns him several annoyed looks- and a decent amount of pain. With a sharp hiss, he gives a quick assessment of the damage, and rubs his forehead.  

Jeb presses himself a bit closer to the window, carefully adjusting his position so as not to send his head slamming back into the glass. His hands move quickly to his pockets- double checking that the Trump supporter disguise is still in place- before he remembers that Grand Central Station is his stop. 

In a surprisingly nimble movement Jeb bounces up from his sitting position and starts for the doors. The train has already started to slow, sending passengers into varying states of disarray as they attempt to gather their belongings. One particular passenger catches his eye. A young girl, staring at him, eyes wide with curiosity.

"Mommy," the little girl turns to her mother. "Mommy, isn't that one of the… the…." 

She fails to find the word 'candidates' in time, and Jeb flies out the door before the mother can turn to look.

-

Some miles away, a machinery clicks and whirs under the influence of electricity. Fingers click away at a dusty old keyboard. There's a distinct, piercing note threading its way through the air- something booting up, something powering on. The room is clogged with noise, whether it be from the keyboard, the machines, or the air conditioning jammed haphazardly in the corner. 

Yet, somehow, Romney's voice is perfectly audible when he speaks.

"Ms. Märchen. Mr. Ruxpin. How goes our latest project?"

"Well, it's going," the reply is flippant, clearly discontented with his sudden presence. "How goes your candidate collection, Romney?"

He skips over the question, "When will it be done?"

"It's a  _ time machine _ ," the man across the room snaps, face twisted into a glower. "It's going to take a little bit longer than you'd expect.  _ Sir _ ." 

"Perhaps if you worked harder, and applied yousel-"

Romney's words die on his lips when an adjustable wrench goes flying past, narrowly missing direct contact with his face. Two pairs of equally exasperated eyes watch him- and, Romney must admit, it's slightly unnerving.

"Get out." The words are said in unfailing unison.

"I expect a report on my desk by this evening," Romney manages to adjust his suit with smug pride before striding out the door. "Good day, Ms. Märchen. Mr. Ruxpin."

The duo exchange glances of their own, before turning back to their work.

It takes a few moments for his final words to process.

"Wait," Ms. Märchen says, eyes narrowing.

"Does he even  _ have _ a desk?"

-

If one could consider his hair gold, they could also consider his flesh the color of a stale cheese puff. However, taking into account the fact that he was a man of a name brand, he could be more accurately likened to a bag of Cheetos, or a can of OSHA Orange Krylon spray paint.

Either way, he was a distinguished man, whether it be due to his political views, or his own looks. There was  _ very _ little chance of spontaneously forgetting Donald Trump, and an even smaller chance of mistaking him for someone else. 

His shoes glide over the carpeted staircase. Attentive eyes watch him from every angle, and the air is silent despite the recent events. Despite the howling protests from one half of the outside crowd. Despite the screamed cheers from the left side.

With his smug steps, Trump continues on his way to the Statuary Hall. Obama is officially out of office, and the White House is his own. Already he could taste the power and knew exactly what he would do with it. 

Ah, what a feeling to be so much higher above everyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today on- the author forgets their own password, decides to actually write something for once, and then struggles to remember their password. Somehow, the author even managed to write an essay before writing an actual meme.   
> That is all.  
> For now.


End file.
